


these celestial bodies

by Agent_24



Category: RWBY
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, M/M, Mutual Pining, Star Tears, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23693044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Qrow's done a pretty good job (not entirely on purpose, but still) of avoiding falling for people so far in his life. He's got enough examples of ways that tends to not work out, but beyond that, crying starlight just sounds like a pain in the ass.Or: Five times Qrow forgot something important, and one time he didn't.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 47
Kudos: 198





	these celestial bodies

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys it's ya boye Agent back with another funky (newish?) au!! This one's called 星涙病 or 'Star Disease' and as far as I've seen hasn't yet bled into Western fandom super hard, so here's my take on it? You can read about it [here](https://twitter.com/rchimedesu/status/1246209686682185730?s=20), but as always I've changed things to suit me in a less uh...physically damaging way?
> 
> In my version, when a person falls into what they perceive as unrequited love, they cry tears of starlight. These tears make a sound and you can see the memories you have of your object of affection in them. The only problem is that after you cry these stars, you forget the memory reflected in them. People tend to keep these in jars or bottles when they can to act as a sort of journal to fill the holes in their memory. When their love is requited, their memories return. If they fall out of love, they simply stop crying starlight.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this one!

Qrow doesn’t usually give a damn about what any of Jimmy’s special operatives think. 

One might even go so far as to say that Qrow made an effort to disagree with as many of Atlas’s personnel as possible. Winter still hasn’t forgiven him for his stunt at Beacon (and yes, _okay,_ he was a little embarrassed at having showed up drunk, but he still would’ve broken James’s bots, would’ve still taken the opportunity to piss off _Special Agent Schnee_ while sober) and James is…James is a bit too preoccupied right now to really care about Qrow’s open disdain for his plans or the way he’s running Mantle into the ground. 

Clover is different. Qrow doesn’t care a lick for any of the other Ace Ops and still avoids any other soldiers like the plague, but Clover, he likes. Clover, he’s thought of pleasantly on and off since the mines, since that charming wink and the reveal of his semblance.

Qrow knows somehow, deep in his gut, that the easy way Clover had responded to misfortune had been empathy, had been _understanding._ They haven’t spoken about it since, not yet, but Qrow knows it from the warmth of his eyes, from that barely hidden glee in his well-trained features that said, _you’re like me._

Fortune is always fickle, it seems.

“I win again,” Clover says with faint amusement, because _somehow_ this is already a joke between them. “Maybe we should call it quits?”

“Shut up and deal,” Qrow mutters, rubbing his temples.

He doesn’t know how Clover managed to talk him into a card game. He’s terrible at cards. He’s always been terrible at cards. But he likes Clover’s laugh, and he likes the deft way he shuffles the deck in gloved hands, so he keeps playing.

He’s not prepared for the compliment. He never is, but he’s even less prepared for Clover’s insistence that he take it. It’s the first time in a long time that Qrow feels like someone has seen—known—his struggles for what they are, and a lot of things happen to him all at once then: the surprise short-circuits him briefly, and then there’s the flutter in his belly left by Clover’s handsome smile and honest eyes, and then embarrassment turns his cheeks pink. And for once it’s not shame that warms him under his clothes, not drink, but something pleasant and airy that makes his chest feel light.

If Qrow feels like he could fly without wings after the mission, then it’s hardly something he can be blamed for. If he walks Atlas’s long halls without the usual slouch in his shoulders, then it’s just because someone’s cheery confidence has been rubbing off on him. He worries absently about the mess that Robyn Hill could cause with James, but at the forefront of his mind is the casual conversations, the jokes, the teasing after his seventh loss. At the forefront of his mind is the cut of Clover’s jaw and the broad width of his shoulders, the low rumble of his voice and the green of his eyes.

He’s still riding that post-mission high by time he gets back to his room. It doesn’t even occur to him to spare his flask a passing glance. He remembers that Clover had asked to see Harbinger’s scythe mode in training sometime and spends a little longer than usual shining the blade. And he daydreams. Like a goddamn teenager, he daydreams. 

With misfortune always at his heels, Qrow’s had an easy time of keeping people at a distance, but even after just a couple weeks in Atlas, he feels like Clover’s got him wrapped around his pinky finger, like he’s a moth flitting to Clover’s flame.

In hindsight, perhaps this is the moment he should’ve realized he was in trouble. 

The happiness is still lingering when the first stars come, not yet fully ruined with his ever wavering self-esteem. He’s fresh out of the shower, a towel around his waist and water clinging to his hair, steam still lightly fogging the mirror while he brushes his teeth for the night. The glass is only just clear enough that he spots the first bright glitter of starlight falling, unbidden, down his cheek with a faint twinkling sound. 

Qrow rinses his mouth quickly and catches the star in his now empty cup, the sound fading out as it falls. It gathers in a perfect pearl of light in the bottom, mirroring an image back at him that’s too tiny to see before more leave sparkling tracks on his face. He doesn’t even sob, and he knows that’s common, but with all that’s happened lately it feels odd to be crying without all the other symptoms of misery.

When the stars finally stop pouring from his eyes, there’s just enough starlight floating in the bottom of the cup for him to see a clear picture. His memory of the mission is already getting spotty.

Qrow writes himself a little reminder not to wash them down the sink in the morning and find a bottle to put them in. When he wakes, Clover’s sweet face reflecting in the light is all he has left of the moment in the transport.

* * *

“Come play cards with me,” Clover says.

Having only just recently escaped from mission debriefing, Qrow stops short in the middle of one of Atlas’s wide hallways. Partly, this is because he’s surprised. Partly, it’s because Clover’s caught his wrist in both hands.

He blinks. He thinks for some reason that he…likes this. The touch, that is. There’s something halfway familiar about it, maybe something that’s now sitting in a tiny corked jar on his nightstand. He recalls watching a tiny image bottled up with his wept starlight, of Clover’s mischievous eyes and warm smile and the way their fingers had just barely brushed when Clover had slid cards over the crate in the back of a transport.

Qrow flushes. He can’t remember what they talked about, but he’s very quite certain it was nice. “Uh,” he manages, “sure.” 

They head for one of Atlas’s many recreation rooms. It’s furnished with a few pool tables, air hockey and darts and a TV screen that’s being largely ignored in favor of scroll games. This one’s frequented by high ranking officers, who give Qrow odd looks as they enter. Qrow shoots them a nasty scowl in return and gets some scoffs for it, but most look away abruptly. 

Clover stifles a laugh. It puts a flutter in Qrow’s belly. It’s a quiet reminder that there’s more to this man than meets the eye, that he’s not exactly like all the soldiers Qrow’s had the displeasure of coming into contact with. _I like you,_ he thinks helplessly, and follows Clover to a table tucked mostly into a corner, as far away from prying eyes as possible. 

Qrow briefly entertains the thought that Clover would like to be alone with him. He chews his lip.

“Kinda surprised you said yes,” Clover admits sheepishly. He pulls his card deck from his pocket as he sits, tossing it on the table for a moment before taking off his gloves. The loud velcro of the wrist straps don’t help take Qrow’s attention off his hands any. They’re nice hands, bigger than his even if his fingers are a little longer. He wonders how well Clover’s fingers would fit between his, and he wonders— 

He clears his throat and sits down, feeling heat gather under his collar. If Clover notices, he doesn’t react. A beat late, Qrow asks, “Why? ‘Cause you cheat?”

It’s a guess. He’s almost certain he lost every single game. He’d watched Clover chuckle about it in that glass bottle. 

“I don’t cheat,” Clover objects, but there’s laughter in his voice, and his eyes are dancing. It’s odd seeing this look on him—Qrow remembers clearly how he looks when smug, and he remembers how he looks during briefings, all seriousness and sharp focus—and he wonders if Clover’s always like this out of uniform.

Out of uniform and maybe out of everything else, too.

“I don’t believe you,” Qrow tells him, only half-serious.

Clover grins and takes his deck out of its box, bending the cards and flipping them from hand to hand without even looking, clearly showing off a little. “If I was cheating,” he says, “You’d never have any good cards.”

Qrow feels a grin playing at the edge of his mouth. “You already know I never have good cards.”

“Okay, fair,” Clover concedes, then cracks the deck against the table twice to line the cards up. “But if I was cheating, I’d have all good ones. Even I’m not lucky all the time.” 

Here, Qrow pauses. He doesn’t remember which cards Clover had ended up having during their mission. “Touche,” he says eventually.

Clover’s smile falters slightly. Just slightly. And for some reason that makes Qrow want to backpedal; maybe he shouldn’t have implied anything about Clover’s luck, even as a joke. Or maybe he shouldn’t have been self-depreciative. There’s an unspoken understanding between them so far that Qrow desperately doesn’t want to ruin, even if he’s missing a little piece of it, so in an attempt to lighten the mood, he blurts, “Maybe I should cheat, then.” 

Clover blinks, then snorts. Qrow likes his laugh so much. Clover slides him a hand of cards and teases, “You could try. I happen to think I’m a pretty observant guy. I’d catch you.”

 _I’d catch you,_ like in the mines when he’d caught Qrow’s shoulder and stopped him from falling on his face. Qrow’s cheeks go pink at the reminder, but he collects himself quickly enough to reply, “I’m sneaky when I want to be.” He checks his hand of cards (all terrible, shocking no one), gaze flicking up to meet Clover’s. “Why’re you surprised, then?” 

Clover pauses while Qrow picks a card to play first. Then, he shrugs (and here, Qrow can’t help that his gaze follows the broad lines of Clover’s shoulders, the lines of his collarbones half-hidden by his uniform) and says, “Like I said, even I don’t always get lucky.”

Qrow glances up just as he lays a card down. It’s a shitty one. Clover meets his gaze and his green eyes are honest, maybe even vulnerable. Qrow wants to talk about this, sometime when they’re actually alone and away from the listening ears of nosy officers (is it that odd that he’s here? Does his reputation precede him? Does Clover not usually come here with people outside of his team?).

For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say. No one ever considers spending time with him to be lucky, except maybe his nieces, who’d gone too long without knowing any better to change their minds about it now. Finally, he says quietly, “I’m not sure luck has anything to do with it.”

The slow smile he gets for that is so genuine, it nearly hurts. Clover plays a card and it’s only just decent.

Qrow loses the first card game and the one after. Clover wins their game of darts, and Qrow beats him at an intense three rounds of air hockey that ends up drawing in a crowd. By the time they think to call it quits, it’s dinner time, and they take their meal together in the mess hall.

Qrow heads back to his room cheery, between the jokes and the few stories they’d shared and the memory of Clover’s pretty smile directed his way. It’s been a long time since he was _cheerful,_ he thinks, a long time since his resting expression had been anything but a scowl. He likes Clover. He likes Clover a lot and thinks he’d like to keep spending time with him. He likes— 

In the bathroom mirror, Qrow realizes there’s a sparkling shimmer to his eyes. He’s a little more prepared for it this time, has a small mason jar set aside to catch the memory. The stars come silent again, running down his cheeks in glittering rivers that mimic the night sky. They pool in the bottom of the jar, and Qrow watches them reflect Clover’s smile as the memory slips from him like sand through his fingers.

The jar goes on his nightstand beside the bottle. He’s afraid to mix them, afraid that it’ll ruin the captured flashbacks somehow. He can’t hear what was said in those memories, mourns lost conversations and the timbre of Clover’s voice, but the visuals are precious enough on their own. The tiny glow shining through the glass is a soft, soothing white, and it lights his room while he sleeps.

In the morning, he watches each memory play through at least twice.

* * *

Ruby doesn’t really need Qrow’s coaching much nowadays as far as scythe work goes. Pride blooms in his chest whenever he gets a chance to watch her train; Crescent Rose is an easy extension of her, and the expert grace she wields it with is unparalleled to anyone else Qrow has taught. There’s a reason scythes aren’t popular weapons, but it looks natural in her hands.

Her semblance is evolving too. She’s been practicing a new trick—splitting into segments instead of just a single torrent of roses—and she’s asked Qrow to see if he notices anything about it after Harriet’s comment in the mines had piqued her curiosity. So Qrow’s here as a set of keen eyes for Petal Burst more than anything, but… 

Well. Yang’s here too, to school her baby sister in the art of hand to hand combat, which is the only thing Ruby has somehow managed to not pick up from Qrow’s many lessons. Still, Yang’s hard hits are good for semblance practice too; Ruby’s getting better at short, sharp bursts instead of just long, fast streams of flowers, and that will be helpful with hand to hand, too. 

“That looks like it hurt,” a voice says just as Yang sweeps a leg under Ruby’s feet just before Petal Burst can activate and sends her crashing to the floor. 

Qrow glances over his shoulder to find Clover standing in the doorway of the observation deck. He doesn’t want to admit to the way his pulse kicks up as Clover comes nearer; he must’ve not had any patrols so far today, because the open air of the tundra hasn’t yet stolen away the lingering traces of his cologne.

Qrow thinks he wouldn’t mind tucking his nose under Clover’s jaw for a better whiff. But maybe that’s a strange thought to be having about someone whose conversations he can’t remember.

“Ruby’s a tough kid,” he answers, turning back to the girls as Clover stops at his side. “But Yang packs a wallop, yeah.”

“Never thought I’d see someone so young give Elm a run for her money,” Clover says, clearly impressed.

“She’d be happy to hear that.” Qrow tilts his head, then asks, “You up next for training?”

Clover shakes his head and pulls his Scroll out of his pocket, waving it back and forth. “Nah. I’ve got mission assignments for your nieces. Small thing. Couple of soldiers who were supposed to patrol the wall called in sick.” He grins. “Plus, I wanted to demand an air hockey rematch.”

Qrow blinks. “You lost?” he blurts, the words out of his mouth before his brain can catch up enough for him to realize, _you should know that,_ for him to remember that he saw Clover run a hand through his hair in delighted defeat.

Clover raises a brow, then his mouth quirks up in amusement. “Ha, ha. I see somebody’s still a sore winner, huh?”

Qrow forces a laugh, sheepish and more embarrassed than he can afford to let on. “You know me,” he says, hoping to brush it off. He’s surprised to find that Clover looks pleased at this.

They both go quiet as Ruby suddenly bursts into petals and flies over Yang’s head, but Yang’s reflexes are fast, and she catches the punch Ruby tries to throw at the back of her head and uses her sister’s momentum to send her flying again.

Qrow winces and sighs. “Hand to hand has never been Ruby’s biggest strength.”

Clover huffs a short laugh. “I see that,” he says. “She’s still leagues better than a lot of other students, though.” He pauses, glancing over at Qrow curiously. “You taught her?”

“Uh,” Qrow says, caught off guard. “Yeah. Or at least I taught her how to use a scythe. I mean,” he motions at the window, then goes on, “I did my best as far as hand-to-hand goes, but Taiyang, their old man, is the one who spent more time with them on it. His style’s cleaner than mine.”

Clover raises his brow. Qrow realizes absently that he’s…he’s dodged a compliment. He’s not sure why he noticed that. It’s not anything out of the ordinary from how he’d usually reply. 

Clover doesn’t call him out on it just yet, though he folds his arms across his chest and turns back to watch the girls. “I can tell,” he says. “That you trained her with a scythe, that is. She moves like you.”

Qrow looks up sharply and misses whatever bruise Yang just gave Ruby that time. As if he’d been waiting for a reaction, Clover looks up and meets his gaze pointedly. Qrow feels himself flush, and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I guess she does,” he says, and can’t help it when pride creeps into his voice as he glances back at his niece. “She’ll tell you she was garbage when she started, but she took to it fast. Scythes aren’t popular weapon choices for a reason, but…she’s stubborn. Both of them are.” 

“A good trait to have in this line of work,” Clover muses. 

“Yeah.” Qrow scratches at his stubble. “Yang takes after her dad more than me, but both of them are better than we were at that age.” He grins then, smug and playful, and shrugs. “‘Course, that little pipsqueak has a ways to go before she catches up to _me._ I’m still the best scythe wielder around.”

Clover laughs brightly. It breaks the faint air of professionalism he’d been carrying, and it makes Qrow’s smirk turn to something a little more helpless. “What?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Clover chuckles, and the smile he throws Qrow’s way is like a flower blooming for the first time, his eyes bright like early rays of spring sun. “I just…like hearing you be confident, is all.”

Now, Qrow feels like his cheeks are burning. “Oh,” he says, then combs his fingers through his bangs just to have an excuse to look somewhere else for a moment. He can’t remember the last time he felt this bashful.

“Arrogance suits you,” Clover adds, teasing.

“Hey!” Qrow exclaims, feigning insult, and if not for the contagious way Clover bursts into laughter again, he would’ve followed up with something clever.

The girls give the two of them an odd look when they go to meet them in the training room. Clover gives them their assignments and heads back to his own work with a cheerful, lazy salute, and Qrow’s eyes linger on him as he goes, partly because Clover is nicely shaped and partly because there’s some kind of fondness warming his chest.

Yang clears her throat loudly. Qrow turns back to them. “What?” he asks.

“Ruby’s feedback?” Yang prompts, hand on her hip as she nods towards her sister, who’s eagerly bouncing on her toes.

Qrow flushes. Ruby’s eyes go wide. Yang squints. He coughs, rubs the back of his neck and starts to rush through his critique. Ruby pouts as he talks, but halfway through, her brows pinch in worry, and she interrupts, “Uncle Qrow? Your eyes are, uh—”

“Glittering,” Yang supplies.

For a split second, he doesn’t follow. Then, as he turns abruptly on his heel, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Qrow!” Yang shouts after him, sounding frustrated, but Qrow’s already out the door and rushing towards his room.

He makes it to his door just as he hears that first quiet chime of starlight. He pulls a fresh jar from the stash he’s hidden in his closet and catches each plinking star in the glass, and sets his third lost memory with the others.

He notices his bottom lip trembles a little, this time.

* * *

“Hang on a sec,” Clover says, tugging his arm.

Clover doesn’t seem to mind touching him. Qrow doesn’t remember it happening, not exactly…he’s seen it in the stars he cries some evenings, the way Clover takes his wrist or squeezes his shoulder or puts a hand at his back, however briefly. Qrow’s startled by how much he likes it each time it happens, which is most likely because he only knows it by proxy. 

“What, more Grimm?” he asks, reaching towards the small of his back for Harbinger.

“No, but—” Clover jerks his thumb south, where the city is still buzzing and unevacuated. The breach had been small, not something an Ace Op captain or an elite Huntsman would be called for, but…well. They’d already been on patrol along the outer walls, already laughing and telling jokes. “There’s a ice cream shop a couple blocks down. Kinda small, but the best in the kingdom, if you ask me. Want to try?”

Qrow raises a brow at him, amusement turning his lips up. “Atlas has ice cream shops?”

“Sure,” Clover says. He grins. “City’s plenty warm, people like sweets…”

“You’ve got a sweet tooth, then,” Qrow guesses, stepping closer. Clover grins and doesn’t answer, like the twinkle in his eye is enough, and they start off down the street leisurely.

“Swear on the Brothers,” Clover goes on, and by now the conversation has been running so smoothly that Qrow’s lost track of where the man’s taking him, “that kid can get banned from anywhere. _Your_ kids being around is the first time I’ve seen Marrow try to act mature on purpose.”

Qrow snorts, hands in his pockets. If he took them out, if he let them hang by his side, their pinkies could be nearly brushing. “Hey, at least he hasn’t got killers after him.” 

Clover looks at him sharply, brows raised in a mix of amusement and surprise. “Killers?” 

“Sure. Multiple times. Salem’s gang, mostly. Hell, Yang and Blake just stabbed a guy on our way here.” 

“No shit?”

“No shit. Fucker had it coming, if you ask me.” Qrow huffs, his breath visible in Mantle’s chilled air as it rustles his bangs. “Wish it hadn’t come to that, though.”

Clover hums and rubs the back of his neck, pressing his lips together as he inhales in slow consideration. “That group seems to get up to more than most,” he says. “Can’t say I’m not glad for their help, but…”

“They should’ve gotten to graduate,” Qrow finishes.

“Yeah.” A pause, then Clover nudges him with his elbow. “Hey, cheer up. You’re about to have the best cookie dough ice cream in the kingdom.”

“Am I?” Qrow muses. 

“Trust me,” Clover tells him, pushing open the door of a quaint little shop and motioning him in.

Ten minutes later and they’ve got their ice cream, and Qrow does indeed have cookie dough in a cone. Clover’s got a cherry froyo popsicle and, by some miracle, their desserts are only just starting to drip by time they settle on one of Mantle’s high rooftops, their feet dangling over the edge.

“I come down here sometimes when I need a break,” Clover says after a moment. “Helps me remember what we fight for. Up there, it’s—”

“Stuffy?” Qrow asks, licking a long stripe up his ice cream. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Clover watching him. “Overbearing? Egotistic? Classist—”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Clover snorts. “But…yeah. All of that.” He sobers. “I know I’ve got a lot of privilege now. I’m grateful for it. It’s just…” He motions to the streets below with his popsicle. “This is my kingdom too.”

Qrow glances over at him (and yes, maybe he does watch the way the popsicle slides into his mouth, just for a moment) and studies Clover’s profile. He expects to find some hint of dishonesty in Clover’s features; the man always seems too good to be true, especially for an elite of Atlas militia. Qrow keeps expecting to be proven right, keeps expecting his crush to get knocked loose from his chest, for the starlight to stop falling from his eyes after every moment he spends with the man, and yet each night the stars come a little faster, a little heavier, and each jar is a little fuller than the last.

Clover glances at him and realizes Qrow’s staring, then pulls his snack from his mouth with a little pop of his lips. “What?” he asks, sounding a little sheepish.

“Nothing,” Qrow murmurs. “S’just…you’re never what I expect you to be.”

Clover blinks, brows going up (perfect brows, gorgeous eyes, he’s so damn pretty, Qrow can hardly stand it). “Is…that good?”

“You think I sit out in the cold eating ice cream with people I don’t like?” Qrow grins, and he hadn’t exactly meant to say it like that, but it’s out now. He likes Clover and he’s not embarrassed about it, even if a few certain _someones_ would tease him mercilessly for it.

And it’s not _exactly_ what he wants to say, not exactly what he _means,_ but…baby steps.

A smile spreads across Clover’s face slowly, like he doesn’t mean to let it. He drops his gaze for just a moment before meeting Qrow’s eyes again, a simple kind of happiness on his face that Qrow doesn’t remember seeing around anyone else, in either real life or through glass. “It’s good ice cream,” Clover says, pointing his popsicle at Qrow like he’s daring him to say otherwise.

Qrow grins and bites into his cone. “Yeah,” he says after it melts on his tongue. “Yeah, you were right.”

Clover winks and tilts his head back, then slides the _entire_ popsicle into his mouth, closing his lips around it and pulling it free with a long, loud slurp. 

Qrow bursts into laughter and smacks Clover’s arm, his own melting ice cream dripping onto his knuckles. “You’re gonna choke,” he scolds playfully. 

Clover laughs too, deep in his chest, and Qrow’s blood sings at the sound. “Nah,” he says easily, and that sends them laughing all over again.

In his room that night, Qrow’s eyes glitter like Patch’s midnight skies. He sobs just once this time, and fills a jar half-full with stars.

* * *

The mission is…unlucky. Qrow is very certain he shouldn’t be thinking that way—he doesn’t want to think that way, and he has an uncanny feeling that he’d be corrected if he voiced it—but he can’t think of any other word for it.

One of the transport’s tires goes flat. An old tire, apparently, which does little to ease Qrow’s nerves. But there’s a spare, of course Atlas prepares for these things, it happens all the time, and they’re moving again only a half-hour off schedule. Then the blizzard kicks up. Naturally, of course. It _is_ the tundra. They’ve been expecting this storm for days. The truck stays warm and the fast piling snow only slows them a little. No big deal.

And then there’s the Grimm.

Of course, there’s Grimm. There’s always Grimm. They send Huntsmen with these transports for a reason, don’t they? There’s Grimm all over the frozen wastelands outside Mantle’s walls, out in the abandoned places humans don’t frequent anymore. 

It’s just Grimm. They’re not even impressive Grimm, just a pack of Sabyrs and some stray Manticores. Easy kills. Even with the wind biting at his skin, they’re hardly threats, despite their numbers. It’s not misfortune. He knows it’s not misfortune. He knows that the noise of the trucks is what caught their attention, and he knows that his worry is what drew them in. It’s not misfortune.

It just feels like it.

Qrow dices through a Manticore’s neck and flicks Harbinger’s blade flat to stab into a Sabyr. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clover expertly looping Kingfisher’s line around a Sabyr’s throat, the hook digging into tar black flesh as he pulls it tight. The Sabyr roars and pops into dust, and as another comes flying, Clover slings his horseshoe into its snout, sending it crashing and skidding. He jumps over its head, grips Kingfisher’s rod like a spear and stabs the sharp end of its handle into the Grimm’s neck, and that Sabyr dissolves into dust, too.

The wind picks up. Snow whirls around them, painting the already pale landscape a blurring white. Qrow carves a cavern into the body of the last Sabyr before it can escape his line of sight and exhales, relieved at having a moment to catch his breath.

Or at least, he thinks he has a moment. He thinks it’s the last Sabyr.

With it’s huge, bone white face offering it refuge in the icy curtains of snow, the _actual_ final beast leaps at him. Qrow reacts on reflex, clicks Harbinger back into sword mode to cut into it, but it’s too late, it’s going to sink teeth into him—

The world tumbles, and Qrow is bombarded by both the sensation of a warm body against his and the feeling of snow falling into his clothes, so cold it stings. When everything stops spinning, Qrow realizes that Clover had tackled him out of the way, and is still laying on top of him.

“That was close,” Clover rasps, out of breath, propping himself up on one arm while he scans for the Grimm, which has vanished in the blizzard again.

Qrow flexes his fingers while he waits for the air to return to his lungs; Harbinger’s handle is still safely in his grip. They’re…fortunate that it didn’t cut into them in the fall. “Lucky save,” Qrow wheezes when he can breathe again. “I owe you.”

Clover looks down at him. He frowns. “That wasn’t luck,” he says.

Qrow blinks. Not luck means intent. Intent means Clover was keeping an eye on him. Qrow is still so unused to fighting with someone at his side that he’d just expected to have to bear the brunt of that attack, but Clover had been watching him, Clover had been _ready_ to protect him— 

Qrow throws an arm around Clover’s neck, his thumb flicking Harbinger’s trigger. The blade folds down just as Qrow pulls Clover flush against his chest, a shotgun blast going off a hair later. The final Sabyr, mid-leap, explodes into dust and gets carried off in the wind, the sound of Harbinger’s shot echoing after it.

For a moment, they lie still. Then, against Qrow’s neck, Clover breathes, “Thank you.”

Qrow lets go of him. His hand lingers along the line of Clover’s shoulders longer than need be. They both sit up, Clover half straddling him and Qrow not minding it. Qrow smiles, sheepish and a little apologetic, then says, “What are partners for?”

Clover meets his eyes, then laughs quietly and climbs to his feet before offering Qrow a hand. Qrow takes it and hauls himself up, and the rest of the mission goes by uneventfully.

Uneventful except for the fact that they spend the rest of it throwing each other compliments for their unique fighting styles, except for the hour they spend discussing the intricacies of their weapons and the purpose behind the designs, except for the easy way their conversation dissolves into something casual, something easy.

Uneventful except for, when the transport is safely parked at Atlas Academy once more, Clover says, almost hesitantly, “Qrow, do you…I wondered if…”

Qrow pauses, tilting his head patiently. He’s wracking his brain for memories and coming up short, and he’s thinking of all the images he’s seen in the glass bottles of stars sitting on his nightstand. He can't think of a time when he’s seen Clover not confident. He likes it better when the man is confident. It’s…charming.

“Everything alright?” he asks. 

Clover rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I…I’ve got a noodle place I go to every time I have a day off. And tomorrow’s my day off. So I figured…maybe you’d want to go with me.” 

Qrow blinks. “Oh. Sure. I mean, hell, I won’t turn down good food. I’ve got a patrol that’s supposed to last till at least six, but after that, I’m game.”

Clover visibly brightens. The man’s like a goddamn ray of sunshine. Qrow feels something dangerously close to adoration blooming in his chest. It feels too early for that, what with all the holes in his memory, but it also feels too nice to reign in.

“Seven then?” Clover asks. “I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.”

“Sounds good to me.” Qrow shrugs playfully, nudging Clover’s arm with his elbow as he turns away. “Hey, it’s about time you actually showed me around your city, isn’t it?”

“I…” Clover starts to say, but he trails off, and Qrow would stay to see what he was going to say if not for the fact that he can feel stars welling in his eyes.

He’s already crying by the time he gets to his room, a trail of tiny comets marking a slowly fading path of light down his cheeks and to his room. His shoulders shudder with it this time. He doesn’t want to forget this. Today feels important. Clover has been kind and sweet and protective and Qrow wants to remember it, wishes his affection didn’t turn to starlight just because he’ll never be lucky enough for Clover to look at him with something heavy in his eyes.

Memory falls away with each star, and in the end Qrow only catches about half of it in a jar…the half that is popped tires, sudden blizzards, and laying with Clover in the snow.

* * *

Clover waits in the courtyard and assumes (hopes) that Qrow’s patrol has, for some reason, run late. He lingers there for an embarrassingly long and desperate two hours before he realizes Qrow isn’t coming.

Clover realizes later, after he showers and climbs into bed, that the mature thing to do would’ve been to message Qrow to see what had happened. Maybe Qrow had suddenly gotten sick. Maybe the patrol had turned out horribly and he’d been so exhausted that he just fell asleep the second he got back to his dorm. Maybe— 

He’ll ask in the morning, he decides, when his pride isn’t stinging so bad, when disappointment and hurt aren’t churning in his belly. He’s been stood up before—even his luck can’t protect him from that, try as he might—but for some reason being stood up by Qrow, specifically, feels bad enough to make a lump settle in his throat.

He’s waiting with folded arms in the briefing room, mid-conversation with Marrow before the meeting begins and only halfway listening to something about an incident in a coffee shop (which had resulted in yet another ban) when Qrow walks in. Clover isn’t quite prepared for the way his heart leaps up into his throat at the sight of him, for the way his breath catches, for the way his stomach flips.

Qrow sees him and smiles, tossing him a lazy salute before he moves to take a seat, coffee in hand.

“—and then she says I’m the one who started the argument,” Marrow goes on, “which is totally not true—”

“Yeah,” Clover interrupts, “Hang on a second.”

“You weren’t even listening!” 

“Coffeeshop, rude barista. Gimme a minute.” Clover waves him off. Marrow pouts, but is almost immediately distracted by Jaune’s arrival with two cups of coffee, and Clover has barely taken a few steps towards Qrow when General Ironwood walks in too, nodding in greeting to the waiting huntsmen and huntresses on his way to the front of the room. Clover presses his lips together and reluctantly takes his place at James’s side, trying not to stare at Qrow while he reads off mission assignments and details.

It doesn’t help that Qrow keeps smiling at him like absolutely nothing is wrong.

After the meeting, despite a few pestering questions nearly making him miss his chance, Clover chases after Qrow and just barely catches him in time.

“Qrow!” he calls, “Qrow, wait.”

Qrow stops and looks back, hands in his pockets and his brows raised curiously. Damned if he isn’t handsome. “Hey,” he returns. “What’s up?”

 _What’s up._ What’s up, like their missed evening didn't even exist. Clover can’t help feeling like Qrow punched him. “I—” he starts, feeling his voice catch in his throat. “Uh…your patrol yesterday. It…it went alright?” That’s not what he wants to say. He wants to say _where were you? What happened to dinner plans? Were you busy with someone else?_

Qrow smiles at him again. It’s…incredibly disarming. Clover’s supposed to be mad at him. “It went alright,” he says with a little shrug. His smile turns teasing, with a little flash of teeth that, much to Clover’s dismay, sends a little flare of heat into his belly. Qrow adds, “Kind of boring without my usual partner, though.”

Clover opens his mouth, then shuts it. It’s not the first time Qrow’s briefly rendered him speechless, but it’s the first time he hasn’t been able to smoothly recover. After a moment, when Qrow’s expression is starting to flicker into something questioning, Clover blurts, “Qrow, I…I waited for you last night.”

Qrow looks taken aback, and then his cheeks flush bright red. “Say that again?” he says, and it sounds almost like a squawk.

Clover realizes two things abruptly: one, that sounded wrong, and two, Qrow doesn’t remember. He’d completely forgotten they were supposed to go out to eat. It wasn’t a date—Clover had hoped, but he had intended it to just be a little quality time together, not necessarily a date unless Qrow wanted it to be—but it still stings. “I meant,” he starts, his own cheeks hot, then swallows and tries again, “We were supposed to meet in the courtyard and grab food last night, remember?”

Qrow freezes. It’s a sharp and visible reaction, a sudden shift in his expression from shock to mortification, a jolt in his shoulders that makes him look almost brittle. “We…” he says weakly. “I…I’m sorry, I just—”

“Uncle Qrow!” Ruby calls from down the hall. “Let’s go, the transport’s going to leave!”

“I have to go,” Qrow blurts, suddenly spurred into motion. “I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“Qrow—!” Clover objects, but Qrow’s already jogging off after his niece. Clover lowers his hand, absently realizing he’d reached out to touch him, and watches as Qrow stops and rubs his neck when Ruby looks up at him worriedly and asks a question Clover can’t hear. 

Qrow’s slouching.

Well. That just…that just went entirely wrong. Clover’s left feeling antsy and just as nervous as he’d been all morning. Something isn’t right here, something about the way Qrow responded to the reminder or the fact that he’d had to be reminded in the first place.

It itches at the back of Clover’s brain all damn day, during patrols and while he drafts the briefings for tomorrow and while he tries to focus on meetings. He gets a report in the middle of the afternoon that Qrow’s mission had a strange stroke of poor luck that nearly caused a transport vehicle to get stuck in a snow drift for over an hour, and that bothers him all day too.

He finishes work well past dinnertime, and he doesn’t even consider heading to the mess hall. Instead, he marches to Qrow’s dorm, lost in thought as he tries to think up something to say. _Qrow, I really like you, I don’t think you skipped out on me on purpose, can we talk, can I ask you something? Qrow, I’ve been thinking about you for weeks and I—_

He’s at Qrow’s door before he can come up with anything solid or even remotely coherent. He stands outside and hesitates, half-talking himself out of it before he impulsively knocks just so he won’t change his mind.

Qrow opens the door and stops short, and for a long, terrible moment, they just stand there and stare at each other.

Then, from Clover, helplessly, “Can I come in?”

Qrow opens his mouth, then shuts it, brows knitting. “I—”

“It’ll just be a minute,” Clover says, rushed. “Please.”

Qrow’s eyes flit over his face. There’s something off about the shade, like it’s brighter than usual, almost tinged a different color entirely. Qrow blinks and turns away and Clover loses his train of thought, but Qrow still steps aside and lets him past the threshold.

After Qrow shuts the door, Clover rubs his arm as if to encourage himself, then asks, “Is everything okay? With us, I mean.”

“With us?” Qrow repeats.

Clover wonders if he’d imagined the little tremor in Qrow’s voice. He swallows. “Us. I mean…I don’t know. I thought…” he trails off. He should’ve planned this out better. Qrow won’t even look at him, so something is obviously wrong. He takes a deep breath, starts over. “You seemed upset before. When I mentioned dinner. And I thought you’d wanted to go when I asked.”

Qrow flushes and ducks his head. It doesn’t suit him at all. Clover’s never seen him like this. Reserved and closed off sometimes, maybe. Sad, often (less so, lately). But like this, ashamed and hiding?

“Qrow,” he says gently, and this time he doesn’t talk himself out of reaching out. Qrow doesn’t shy away from him when he places a hand on his arm, at least, even if his shoulders hunch slightly. That’s a start. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t,” Qrow mutters. Even the tips of his ears are red. 

“Why not? You don’t have to be embarrassed in front of me. You know that.”

Here, Qrow flinches. Clover lets go of him immediately, and Qrow steps past him like he just wants to escape Clover’s eyes. “It’s not that simple,” he mutters. 

“Qrow, if you want me to back off,” Clover starts, and then stops, partly because it hurts in his throat, and partly because Qrow’s movement to the middle of the room has dragged Clover’s gaze towards the soft glowing lights on the nightstand.

He steps closer, watching the line of Qrow’s shoulders tense before he looks back to the jars. “Are these…” he asks.

Qrow looks up sharply. “Don’t—” he blurts, but Clover’s already picked up a jar. 

The light is beautiful and glittering and weightless, shifting in the glass and blinking back at him like twinkling stars. Clover holds it up close to his face for a better look and sees his own image reflected back at him, in the truck and the rec room, on the rooftops and in the snow.

“This is me…?” he breathes.

He hears Qrow’s breath hitch quietly, and when he looks up, Qrow’s cheeks are lit with that same pale light. Stars fall past dark lashes, a sound like soft bells fading out as they drop from the edge of his jaw. 

The jar nearly slips from Clover’s fingers, and he quickly sets it back down on the nightstand. “Qrow, no!” he murmurs, stepping into the man’s space. He reaches up to brush the starlight away without thinking, half-mesmerized with the shadows it casts over Qrow’s cheekbones. “Gods, don’t cry.”

Qrow meets his eyes for a moment, one hand wrapped around Clover’s wrist and the other just barely there against his chest, then squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his chin, glimmering light streaming down his face.

“Qrow,” Clover says desperately, swiping another bright star away with his thumb. “Is this why you kept forgetting details about the time we spent together? You thought I didn’t like you?”

“I forgot you asked me,” Qrow rasps, and Clover, suddenly impulsive, lifts Qrow’s face in both hands and kisses him, because he doesn’t know what else to do or how to put everything in his chest to words. Qrow inhales sharply against his mouth, and between that and his surprise, the shape of the kiss is all lopsided. Clover lessens the pressure until it’s hardly more than a press of lips, gentle and chaste and meant to tell more than show.

After a moment, he withdraws just slightly and stills, their noses still touching, and waits while all the memories Qrow kept in jars rush back to him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the glow from the dresser slowly disappear.

“Oh,” Qrow whispers.

Clover smiles, then laughs softly. “Wasn’t I being obvious?”

“I’m bad at this,” Qrow says, voice steadier now, but breathy. “Relationships. I don’t get lucky like this.”

“This isn’t luck,” Clover tells him. “This hasn’t got anything to do with luck.”

“I screw things up.”

“So what? I do too.”

“You don’t understand,” Qrow insists. “I’m not good at…at keeping people. I don’t just want you once.”

“Good,” Clover says, firm, and kisses him again. Qrow melts into it this time, leans into his touch and presses against his body, mouth responsive and eager and wanting and _sweet._ Clover breaks it just to brush Qrow’s bangs back from his forehead, to add, “And I _do_ understand,” against his lips.

They fall into Qrow’s bed with their clothes still on. Clover has enough sense to at least kick off his boots before he tangles himself in Qrow’s arms, before they press more unhurried, experimental kisses against each others mouths, legs entwined and their hands either combing through each other’s hair or lightly trailing down each other’s spines. It seems unreal. It seems dreamlike to think that Qrow has been crying stars for him, that even with missing memories, he’d kept on enjoying Clover’s company.

That might be what gets to him the most, that Qrow let him a little closer each time even without being able to bank off their building relationship.

They fall asleep like this, wrapped up in each other. And they wake up like this, far past morning briefings, with intact memories and no stars to be cried, with jars to be emptied and tucked back into storage.


End file.
